In This Hour
by Emory Lee
Summary: Elrond gets through the day with a little help from his friends. Eventually Glorfindel/Erestor/Elrond
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Lotr belongs to Tolkien and I'm not making any profit on this fic. I'm just playing in his sandbox.

Heartfelt thanks to Genesis Grey for being an excellent beta.

Chapter 1

Elrond rolls out of bed just as the stars in the eastern sky give way to the first light of dawn. It is an early hour, even for an elf, but lingering in bed only brings painful memories to the mighty lord. He quietly pulls on his robe, pausing to cast a sad glance at the empty spot on the far side of the bed before padding barefoot to the washroom beside his chambers.

The water in the basin is sharp with winter's chill; so Elrond makes quick work of his morning wash, removing sleep and the stench of night terrors from his fair face and exhausted body with a wet cloth. Winters are the hardest, there's little in the way of duty to distract him from the regrets and what ifs that prey upon his unoccupied mind.

He towels off quickly and slips into informal robes, grateful for their thickness. Usually the cold doesn't bother him, but today it seems to be taking advantage of his dark mood. Some days his mixed heritage is a blessing. Today it's not.

Elrond runs a comb through his hair, noting that the ends are starting to split and in need of a trim. He absently glances at the washroom mirror which reflects his bed in the other room. Elrond freezes, an old memory welling up with painful clarity. He can see Celebrian leaning against the bed's headboard, gown tumbling off her shoulders and a smile gracing her delicate features as she hums to the infant suckling at her breast. Dropping the comb into the basin he spins around, her name on the tip of his tongue. His bed is empty, just the way he left it when he awoke.

Feeling cheated Elrond's heart twists in his chest and he hastily flees his chambers, barely slowing to grab his boots. Five hundred years have passed since Celebrian sailed to Valinor and in an unguarded moment her absence still hurts him like dirt ground into an open wound.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**PurpleHat and GreyLynx**: Thank you both for the thoughtful reviews! I tried rewriting the first chapter in past tense and it felt awkward to me, but that may be just because I've read it so many times as it is :-) I've posted chapter2 as it is; if it still doesn't seem to work, let me know and I'll rewrite and repost both chapters in past tense.

**Chapter 2 **

Once out in the hallway Elrond takes a calming breath and pulls on his boots, grateful that he has no duties today, barring an emergency. He can tell it's going to be one of those days where the past seeps too close to the present. He feels like an unarmored elf waiting downrange for the next volley of arrows.

Elrond sighs and tries to decide what to do with his day. His library lacks its usual appeal and the thought of the stack of parchment on his desk is more aggravating than usual. The thought of a ride to the northern borders strikes a spark of interest but so does the thought of working on a painting that has been waiting since summer for his attention.

The sound of a door slowly opening distracts him from his internal debate. Down the hall an elf is slowly backing out of the room that contains the communal hot springs. He is wearing only a pair of leggings and his hair clings to his back in wet golden strands.

Elrond knows trouble when he sees it.

"Glorfindel?"

The fabled Balrog Slayer spins around, his expression similar to an elfling caught stealing honey cakes. The rather large bundle of clothes and towels in his arms begins to tilt and he frantically grabs for a falling tunic before pasting an innocent expression on his face.

"Elrond! Fair morning, is it not?"

"Indeed," Elrond says neutrally, eyeing the clothes. "May I ask what you plan on doing with Erestor's robes?"

"Oh, these?" Glorfindel inquires innocently, holding up the sleeve of a dark blue robe with silver stitching that is Erestor's favorite. "I found it beside one of the pools, he must have left it." Glorfindel's smile turns mischievous. "I shall return it --as soon as I get dressed. For it is rather chilly this morning." Laughing, Glorfindel makes a small bow then races down the hall, moving with the fleet footed grace of a stag.

Elrond watches Glorfindel leave with an arched eyebrow. He then pulls off his outer robe and leans against a pillar, patiently waiting. He's not disappointed. From inside the hot springs there is the sound of water splashing and vehement cursing. The door slams open and Elrond is greeted to the sight of his head advisor, sans clothes.

Erestor freezes, then blushes furiously. Elrond quietly holds out his outer robe, which Erestor snags and hastily dons.

"Thank you," Erestor says stiffly. "If you'd excuse me, I think it's time we had another kinslaying."

Erestor turns smartly on one heel and stalks off down the corridor towards Glorfindel's rooms, his shoulders set with determination. Elrond waits until Erestor is out of sight then throws his head back and laughs.

tbc.


	3. Chapter 3

**lackam and Oleanne, thanks for the comments!**

***

**Chapter 3**

***

With a lighter heart Elrond continues on his way, grateful for his friends' antics. Glorfindel and Erestor are his dearest companions and the long years have passed easier for their unwavering friendship.

The sun has finally made her way over the mountain ridge and her vibrant light spills into the valley, bringing it to life. Elrond steps onto one of the small balconies and closes his eyes, listening to the sounds of his house starting its day. He hears the gentle chatter of the cooks echoed by the crackle of the recently lit cooking fires. Down below there is a faint crunch of fresh snow under elven boots as the grooms make their way to the stables. The horses hear them as well, for there is a chorus of excited nickers followed by the random banging of grain buckets. The grooms laugh at this and one breaks into a jaunty tune.

Elrond smiles, pleased that his people are happy. He continues listening, slowly becoming aware of a third underlying sound, that of someone breathing.

He's not alone.

Elrond turns and looks, expecting a messenger or one of his scholars with a question. There's no one there. It takes him a moment to realize that the sound originates from one of the balcony's couches. It's Estel and Arwen.

They are both asleep, his daughter curled up in Estel's arms, her eyes glazed in elven dreams while his are closed in mortal sleep. A blanket lies in a pile beside the couch, tossed aside sometime during the night. Elrond blanches slightly and leans against the balcony rail for support. The sight tears at his heart. He has long hoped that their love was an infatuation that would fade with the passing of the seasons; yet they have remained as steadfast as the mallorn trees for three decades. He knows his hope is a fool's hope.

Elrond loves them both, his only daughter and this son of his heart, but bitterness and pain are slowly tearing him up inside. Pain that Arwen would make Elros' choice. Bitterness that Estel, after all that Elrond had provided, would take his daughter from him. It's a betrayal that he's not sure he can forgive.

Elrond sighs, he doesn't want to hate his children. He silently retrieves the blanket from the floor and covers them both. He hesitates, then presses a kiss to his daughter's cheek and smoothes the hair away from Estel's brow. With a lingering glance over his shoulder, he leaves them to their sleep.

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

***

**Chapter 4**

***

Glorfindel leaves Erestor's robes on a chair in the advisor's rooms, then makes a strategic retreat to his own. There he goes about getting dressed, acting as if nothing is wrong, though he keeps a wary eye on the door. Erestor's tongue is sharp but his knives are sharper and Glorfindel begins to worry that he might have gone a little too far with this prank. Erestor's dignity is a difficult terrain to traverse and Glorfindel sometimes sticks his foot where it doesn't belong. Erestor is not above sneaking up on him to knock some sense into his thick skull.

His watch of the door is in vain, for as he begins to brush his hair a wet towel collides with the back of his head. Glorfindel spins around, accidentally yanking a few golden strands out with his brush. Erestor is perched on his balcony rail, arms crossed and dressed in his favorite blue robes.

"You are a menace," Erestor growls, but the humor lighting his dark eyes eases the threat.

Glorfindel grins tentatively. "But I'm your menace," he says hopefully, not wanting to sleep alone tonight.

Erestor arches an eyebrow and takes his time answering. "Indeed," he finally says, then swings his feet over the rail so he's facing the gardens beyond. For a second Glorfindel is sure that Erestor is leaving but the dark haired elf keeps his perch and tosses a sly look over his shoulder. "Brush my hair," he commands.

Glorfindel laughs, now knowing that he is forgiven.

Erestor's hair is heavy and thick, usually hanging down his back in rich waves that catch fingers that attempt to run through it. Most of the time Erestor can manage it quite well, but after a wash his hair takes on a life of it's own, curling and frizzing into a mess that's a chore to brush out.

It is a chore that Glorfindel has made his own. He smiles as he lifts the brush, recalling the first day he touched Erestor's hair.

Their early acquaintance had been bitter and filled with rivalry; both blinded by preconceptions of the other. Glorfindel had seen Erestor as an upstart youth, while Erestor had labeled him a washed out warrior seeking to reclaim glory at Elrond's side.

Suffice it to say they fought constantly.

Then one summer day, many centuries ago, one of their infamous arguments had erupted during lunch and led to a food fight. Glorfindel had passed Erestor the sugar, foolishly saying, "Erestor, make sure you add an extra helping to your tea; it might sweeten your disposition." For a moment Erestor had gapped at him in disbelief, unable to come up with a retort. Then his mouth had hardened into a thin, flat line and he flung his spoonful of sugar at Glorfindel, who quickly retaliated by dumping a pot of honey on the advisor's head.

It had not taken Glorfindel long to figure out why Elrond had thought it a fitting punishment for him to remove the mess from Erestor's hair. Who knew honey could cause so many knots?

Yet somewhere that day - between the threats, snide remarks and bitchy complaints - they began to talk. Something tentative began to form, and on the following evening, it was really no surprise to either when Glorfindel sat behind Erestor, asked how his day had gone, and began combing his hair.

There's a certain pattern to combing long hair and Glorfindel follows it without thought. One must begin at the bottom and work their way up, otherwise tangles tighten into knots. And pulled knots lead to sarcastic comments from sharp-tongued advisors.

Glorfindel's hands are large and trained for battle but in this task they know how to be gentle. He works silently, enjoying being near his beloved.

Erestor sighs, a gut deep sound. "The past hangs heavy on him this morning," he states sadly, looking at someone down below.

Glorfindel pauses in his brushing and peers over Erestor's shoulder to see whom the elf is talking about. Elrond slowly makes his way through the gardens, head bowed. His shoulders are slightly hunched and Glorfindel can tell that his friend is paying no heed to the snow covered landscape around him.

It is a sorrowful sight. Glorfindel buries his face in the crook of Erestor's shoulder, trying to block out the lost expression on Elrond's face. "It hurts me to see him thus," he whispers. "The Valar ask too much of him."

Erestor's wisdom runs deep and he spends a moment contemplating what Glorfindel has said. Never has Elrond's life been called ordinary, marked as it is with things both glad and sorrowful.

He reaches up and gently cups the back of Glorfindel's neck. "I know," he says gently, " but who are we to question the ways of the Valar?"

For a moment Glorfindel is silent, but when he speaks, his voice is both bitter and determined. "We are his friends."

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

GreyLynx: Thank you! I won't leave Elrond sad, I promise!

(A/N: pullets are young hens, not quite mature.)

***

**Chapter 5**

***

Feeling raw and worn Elrond leaves the house and wanders down a snow-covered path, his mind on everything except where he is going. He knows he has gone some distance but does not realize how far until the thwap of an arrow interrupts his thoughts.

With a quick glance at his surroundings to orientate himself, Elrond realizes he has wandered near the archery ranges. He debates on heading in a different direction, but the thought of some physical exertion is appealing.

The ranges are abandoned save one. Elladan. A smile of pride lights Elrond's face as he watches his son handle his bow with the grace of one that has truly mastered the art.

"You do your teacher proud," Elrond calls out.

Elladan pauses mid-draw and gives him a quirky grin. "Thank you Ada. And does the teacher plan on joining his student this morning for a round or two?"

"Yes, I do."

Elladan grins widely then focuses his attention downrange, completing the draw. A split second later the arrow embeds itself in the target, joining a group of arrows no larger than Elrond's fist.

Elrond joins his son at the line, noticing that his arrows are the blunt tipped ones favored by the guard for practice. They bring to mind a time when his sons were elflings and had a fierce competition to see who could split the most arrows. Glorfindel had been notably thrilled with their success and had rewarded them with a month's duty of repairing arrows.

"If you get that group any tighter, you'll split the shafts and Glorfindel will be seeking you hide again," Elrond says, amused.

Elladan laughs. "I know, I know. Elrohir says the same thing."

"Speaking of Elrohir, where is he this morning?"

"He's leading the pullets on a merry chase," Elladan says mischievously, then his expression turns annoyed. "Unfortunately, he didn't get all of them."

Mystified, Elrond arches an eyebrow. "Pullets?"

"Aye, pullets." Elladan lowers his voice. "When you retrieve your equipment, look out the east window. You'll see what I mean."

Still at a loss, but curious, Elrond heads to the equipment building. As he walks along the rows of equipment to the east window, he gathers what he needs. His long sleeved robes are exchanged for one of the spare tunics kept on hand for emergencies. A bow is selected, arrows gathered in a quiver, and an arm guard is adjusted to comfort. He pauses though at the archers' gloves, and has a brief struggle with pride. Most experienced archers don't use gloves for practice, but quite a few seasons have passed since he last held a bow. His fingers now lack the hard-earned calluses.

Telling himself that he is being foolish, Elrond quickly picks out a glove and continues to the window. For a moment he sees nothing of note as the window is hazy with age and grime, but sunlight flashing off a bit of metal catches his eye. It is the bright silver of a small hair barrette.

Amused, Elrond watches Elladan's 'pullets,' who are peeking out from their hiding place behind a fallen oak. They are two young girls, daughters of the large group of Dunedain wintering in Imladris. To his knowledge, both have just reached marrying age.

It appears they have set their sights on his sons. Elrond's amusement erupts into laughter; his sons have always preferred to be the pursuers rather than the pursued.

An unhappy voice yells, "It's not funny, Adar!" It makes Elrond laugh all the harder.


End file.
